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ISSUE:  Winter 1952

Now is the virgin with child,
         Oh holy my heart in the snow,
There in the ox-stall defiled
         Lieth the lily white doe.

Soon to her soft breast she presses,
         Oh holy my heart in the snow,
The sweet babe—lovingly dresses
         His limbs on the clean-scented mow.

Close is the oxen’s warm breath,
         Oh holy my heart in the snow,
Close as the spring and as death
         To the saviour sleeping below.


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